Prelude
by Kermitfries
Summary: This is another story in which Alex is assigned to a team. He has to infiltrate an academy specialized in selfdefense. Just read the first chapter, and if you don't like it, I won't complain. Just give it a chance.
1. Prelude to a Prelude

Author note - please let me know how this chapter tickles your fancy. There's two ways I can write this story. One is - I can do the whole cast - as in Alex and his new team. I can write exerpts about them all and turn this into something that isn't just about Alex rider. The other is that I can focus solely on Alex. It's your choice, because I know how much Mary Sues (this isn't one) irritates people.

And! I'm sorry if I'm off on a few things. I'm American...and I'm making his team American. But alex and EVERYBODY else, aside from Jack are british and I don't know too much about all of that.

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How does a teenager become a spy? Alex Rider hadn't ever asked himself this one simple question. You may think that it was because he already knew, having been a spy and a teenager himself. But that wasn't it. He didn't attempt to ask himself this question because he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

They say that in time and experience everything falls soundly into place. You achieve the status you are meant to achieve and acquire the responsibility and mentality of an adult, given the appropriate time. Alex hadn't ever heard this phrase before. But if he had, he would have no other choice but to scoff at it.

Fourteen years of mere existence, and he couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, somewhere along the way he had lost himself. His uncle, the man that had been nourishing him for as long as he could remember, spent that same exact life keeping him in the dark. He had been lied to. That's how simple Alex Rider could boil his life down to. Lies. Secrets. Moments in time hidden from him, that Alex knew he would never be able to regain. The man who hid so many things from him would never be able to reveil these exact things to him, no matter how much time Alex gave him. He had lost a huge chunk of his life, and he knew that he would never get it back.

Alex knew that even if MI6 ever did manage to leave him alone, which was doubtful in and of itself, he would never be the same ignorant boy he used to be. He proved that when he went after Damien Cray and then Scorpia all on his own accord. He knew that he'd always be on the alert, even after his spying days were just a distant memory. This was the person he was meant to be, and part of him wasn't bitter about that. Sometimes he even liked the person he had become. Today...he wasn't exactly in love with himself.

"I don't want to do it," he stated. His voice was soft, tired, but his words were clear. He looked like a different person. His skin was clammy, pale. His eyes were outlined in red, half closed. His blonde hair was dishelved and his hands lay limp on top of the stiff hospital sheet. "I'm tired of this little game we're playing."

Blunt didn't reveal emotions. He had expected Alex's relunctance, as he did ever since the first time he'd met the boy. "Don't be foolish," Blunt stated. "People are in danger, the government needs your help."

Alex sighed. "I'm too weak to do anything anyway." Before Blunt even contemplated responding to Alex's simple statement, Alex regretted saying it. It almost sounded as if he were making an excuse, as off hand as that excuse was. It sounded like he almost felt guilty. Which he didn't. Most of the time.

"It's a new academy that you've been enrolled into, Alex," Blunt said, disregarding Alex's previous statement completely. "For self defense. You'll merely look like a boy whose been shot and is now looking for a way to prevent that if you were ever put in that situation again."

"Since when does self defense stop bullets?" Alex asked.

"It doesn't," Blunt agreed. "But as I'm sure you have already discovered, knowing how to protect yourself does give you quite a hefty bit of confidence."

"Oh," Alex said nodding understandingly. "So it's confidence that makes you indestructable in the face of guns...boy I sure wish I had known that a few days ago when I was shot."

Blunt shook his head. "Your coorporation is preferred, but it is not necessary. You have a team to think about now."

Alex shook his head. "I'm sure they can take care of themselves."

"As am I," Blunt agreed. "Or else I wouldn't have suggested them for this mission. But that is rather irrelivent. All I want you and your team to do, Alex, is attend the academy and keep your eyes open...see if anything unordinary is occuring."

"Why?" Alex asked. It was the first sign of his defense crumbling, and he hated how easily he had caved. "What do you think we'll see?" he asked.

Blunt's face remained emotionless, and he remained silent, almost deliberating whether to tell Alex or not. "There has been four deaths within the past three months. Deaths that may or may not have been the unfortunate outcome of accidents. There have been numerous calls to the local police, from desperate, pleading teenagers. The children would go on about how roughly they were being treated, how certainly the treatment wasn't legal. But you must understand Alex, this school is comprised of children in need of extra discipline. The school is there to provide it, and teach them how to become better people in general. You and your team need to keep your eyes open; listen to every conversation; watch everyone one at all times. I'm sure you know how it goes. And that is why I approach you first and foremost."

Blunt fingered through a pile of folders and pulled out on file in particular. He stepped foreward and handed it to Alex, who hesitantly accepted it. "That is your new assignment and the team you have been assigned to. I expect you will have no problem reading through the file before you flight leaves tomorrow afternoon."

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How does a teenager become a spy? It used to be impossible. Teenagers were emotionally inept to endure the traumas attributed to spying. They generally were rash; Alex knew this more than anyone could. But Alex did not know how a teenager could become a spy...willingly. Nor did Daniel Ozbourne.

Daniel Ozbourne was nineteen. He was the first child ever forced into the spy world. It differed radically from Alex's experience. His father was American and was quite possibly the farthest thing from a 'spy'. His mother was Korean and murdered when he was at a young age. His grandfather, however, did teach Daniel everything he currently knew about the martial arts. It is true, he wasn't a spy. He knew two languages, English and Korean. He knew little else about the spy world.

But what lured Blunt to him was a 'heist' Daniel had attempted to pull. He tried to steal a diamond; a diamond worth a hefty sum. And what got Blunt was that he nearly got away with it. Reviewing the videoes, Blunt was almost awed by the way this boy moved. He seemed endlessly agile, and rather pleasantly impulsive. He was perfect. Blunt knew that Daniel Ozbourne could die - going into his first mission, when he was fifteen, but that was a risk Blunt was rather more than willing to take. However, Blunt had not anticipated the amount of angst that Daniel held within himself, after his mother's death and then after his partner in that one great heist had been killed right before Daniel had been caught.

It has been four years since Daniel had attempted to rip off one the grandest museums in America. It has been four years since Daniel had met Blunt. It has been four years since Daniel had been sent on a mission.


	2. Debriefing and Banter

**Chapter three**

_But man is the unnatural animal, the rebel child of Nature, and more and more does he turn himself against the harsh and fitful hand that reared him._

_H.G. Wells_

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Study everything. Accept nothing. Always be suspicious. Always be alert. These are the rules Ian Rider had lived his entire life with. These are the rules he had then passed onto his nephew, when his brother could not. Alex had come to realize, with a sickening suddeness, that these are the exact rules that had guided his entire life.

Daniel Ozbourne is the boy he was doomed to live with for the duration of this little experiment. The academy hosted dorms that housed two students each. And by mere coincidence, Alex Rider was bunked with Daniel Ozbourne. Of course the school didn't know that. Because in their books, Alex Quincy was bunked with Li Bosch, a boy who suddenly had a limited English vocabulary.

Oz, as he had instructed that Alex identify him by, even if it was only in private, was already there when Alex entered his humble abode. He lifted his head slightly upon Alex's entrance. The intensity of Oz's stare almost burned. Alex shivered, forcing himself further into the room. He gingerly lowered his bag to the ground and sat on his bed.

"So you're Alex Rider," Oz began. Alex nodded curtly, holding Oz's heavy gaze calmly. "The _perfect _spy, huh?"

Alex shook his head. "I am not a spy."

Oz shrugged. "Yeah. Keep telling yourself that. It won't make it any more real...but I hear it helps the sanity stay within your body."

Alex narrowed his eyes. "You're American," he stated quietly. Oz shrugged. "That wasn't in your file."

Oz shrugged again, leaning back against the wall at the head of his bed. "I guess he didn't think it matter," he murmured. Alex wasn't quite sure if Oz was talking to himself or addressing Alex. He didn't suppose it much mattered. "In the end of things," Oz added.

Oz was looking at him again, forcing Alex to acknowledge the conversation at hand. "What do you mean by that?" Alex asked him quietly.

"We're not spies," Oz said seriously. "This isn't a video game, and you're not safely at home. What they want us to do here is very real. Dangerous, and they're not afraid to bet our lives on it. They want solutions. And they're willing to do whatever it takes to solve the problems at hand. Our nationality, our personalities, our relationships and achievements, none of that will matter when all they get back are corpses. Faceless casualties of their own war."

Alex shook his head. That's not true, something inside kept telling him. They would never stand by while four children were murder...just so there would be evidence against the criminals at hand. But Blunt had quickly ushered Alex and the other three kids into this academy - without any back ups. No gadgets, no way of communication aside from a cell phone and a memorised number.

"If you think it's suicide, then why are you here?" Alex asked.

"Because I have a death wish," Oz answered honestly. "Why are you here?"

_Why are you here?_ Alex knew sooner or later he would have to face that question. "I don't have a choice." The answer had always been in his head. It had been the one that he kept telling himself.

Oz shook his head, strands of black hair separating itself from the main mass of hair to fall across his face. "There's always a choice." His face looked dark than before, somehow shrouded in shadow.

Alex narrowed his eyes further. "No there isn't. Not always."

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Blunt did have a plan. He hadn't just happened up this team that he has designed. He had been searching for a team, preverably young. Because the young could learn, the young also didn't have nasty habits that older spies tended to pick up. Little tricks they thought worked...until the day they didn't.

Daniel Ozbourne was an excellent martial artist. He fought with the lack of consistency that afforded him the ability to adapt to every fighting style. He could think almost simultaneously on his feet. He was strong, physically and emotionally. And he was young. Young enough to learn, old enough to be useful.

Bartholomew Mallory was observent. And he had a photographic memory, allowing him the ability to commit everything he reads and hears to memory. He was quiet, almost to the point of silence, but he listened to everything. It was Mrs. Jones who first took notice of him, two years ago, when she visited his father for a strictly business meeting. Normally Mrs. Jones wouldn't have noticed the son of one of her agents, but Bart was different. He was indifferent, silent, and strictly obedient.

Peyton Dewey was a pleasant blend of the two. She had a blended sense of martial arts that you could find in no academy, or learn from any master. She was as observant as any good spy would be. She had been fighting underground and a previous agent had seen her and only mentioned her in casual passing. But while Blunt and Mrs. Jones were gathering the team together, this girl seemed to fit quite nicely as the last member. She was the normal teenager; the sort of teenager that Alex strived to be. But unlike him, she had absolutely no problems with being normal - with staying away from violence, and not being the hero.

And Alex Rider? Quite honestly, he was the first person in this team, whether he was aware of it or not; even before he was shot. Even before this mission suddenly became personal. Alex was always a part of that team, and the other members were almost secondary as of this moment.

They were not friends, not companions - not even on a speaking basis yet. But Alex was aware that they'd either have to learn to communicate or parish.


	3. Introductions

Seven classes, five days a week. Sixteen weeks a semester. Two semesters a year. No holidays, no days off, a total of three sick days a semester, and even then there has to be a confirmation from the academy's nurse. That is what the Hendrick's Academy's rule book said. And this is what Peyton told Oz and Alex, after Bart informed her.

There was a vast variety of class, separate from martial arts. The individual students were allowed to pick their own classes. Normal students got to pick their own classes. Blunt picked the classes for his team, making sure that they shared classes; not all - but enough to matter.

"So, this sucks," Peyton commented as she sat on Oz's bed, waiting patiently as the two boys that owned the dorm were getting dressed. "We've got the basic-ist of basic classes. The least he could have done was let us learn something..."

"Speak for yourself," Alex said, as he quickly pulled on a t-shirt over his head, but Peyton still managed to catch a glimpse of his exposed flesh; the cuts and bruises not yet healed, the bullet wound still bandaged. "My schedule's an exact replica of the classes I'm supposed to be taking. The least he could have done was given me blow off classes that require no concentration and effort."

Peyton chuckled. "What, no comment?" She asked, turning to Oz.

Oz glanced up, as he was pulling on his jacket. "Yeah, you're a nerd and this kid is exactly that -- a kid."

"So what does that make you?" Peyton asked defensively.

"Unlucky," Oz said quietly. He glanced around the room. Alex was looking at him with an odd expression. Peyton looked slightly bored, drumming her fingers on her knees, and staring off into the empty space before her. "Where's the other guy?" Oz asked, his voice loud in the sudden silence.

Alex shrugged and glanced over at Peyton. "I dunno," Peyton said shrugging. "Probably out...observing stuff. He seems to do that a lot. It's kind of creepy and a little unsettling. Sometimes I find myself talking to myself because I get lonely."

"Yeah," Oz drawled, glancing down at his watch. "I wonder what they'll do if you're late to class," he commented. The first class of the day was scheduled to start in ten minutes.

"Why?" Peyton asked.

Alex shrugged. "Well, it is supposed to be a cruel institution. Or that's what Blunt was hinting at. The only way to see if their cruel is to make them cruel."

Peyton shrugged. "Are you gonna be our guinea pig, Oz?" She asked, glancing up at him. She wasn't drumming her fingers anymore. She was rocking back and forth.

"Are you ADD or something?" Oz snapped.

"What?" Peyton asked quietly, tapping her fingers and rocking in unison.

"Why can't you sit still?" Oz asked, impatiently.

Peyton shrugged. "I can," she murmured. "...it just feels weird when I do."

"Yeah," Oz drawled. "That's normal." Peyton attempted to say something but Oz spoke at the same time and their voices mixed together in incomprehensible banter.

Alex glanced down at his watch. "Someone has to be the overachiever," he said loudly, over the arguing. There was five minutes until class started. "Everyday after today, someone has to go to class ten minutes early. Someone has to go to class directly on time - and someone has to be late everyday."

"I call dibbs on being normal," Peyton said quickly.

"Awww," Oz sighed. "Normal at last, eh?" Peyton made a mock smile, and covered her heart, as if it were in pain.

Alex shrugged. "I guess I'll go early then. And you'll be at least ten minutes late every day," he said looking at Oz who nodded.

"What about Bart?" Peyton asked.

Alex shrugged. "He truly will be the normal one of us. He is not a part of the experiment. He is what you call the control group. The normal one. The one that goes to class at varying times."

"The unmoldy bread," Peyton commented. Alex gave her weird look and then shrugged. Peyton glanced down at her watch. "Well it's time for us to go to class. Not bad, since we all have the first class together."

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	4. Dante

Cowards die many times before their deaths;  
The valiant never taste of death but once.  
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,  
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;  
Seeing that death, a necessary end,  
Will come when it will come.

- Julius caesar

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Thanks for the reviews. I posted the first three chapters so quickly because that's what I had done. So I'm sorry if it may take me some time to post future chapters. I have these mood swings where my writing is crap and I'd hate to post crap. So sometimes I'm not quick at posting. I was recently asked for a description of my characters because I really haven't given one. Now, Oz -- I had an actor in mind when i created him. This actor is how I see him in my mind when I write him, and I imagine he fights just like this actor can fight. The actor is named Johnny Yong Bosch. So, I have this youtube video of his movie the extreme heist. Now the movie is strictly nonexistent budget wise so it looks really cheap. And it's basically a showcase of Alpha stunts -- the same stunts as Power rangers. But if you want an idea of how I envision how he fights -- watch it for the fighting -- This is a picture of him (this is from the ninties so this isn't how the actor presently looks, but if you want more of the actor -- he has many videoes on youtube. Don't be shy, you know you love him...) -- http://s206. sort of just imgined Alex as Alex pettyfer so I assume you guys know what he looks like. My other two characters I didn't base off of celebrities. But to sum up the essence of Peyton Dewey I think I did imagine her like the character Peyton Sawyer, I guss that's where I got the name from. Now, it will be much harder for me to place a face to Bart, because I don't think there's a celebrity in which he may resemble. No, he's strictly mine. Now when I devised up Bart I wanted a character that could resemble all three of the previous characters and yet resemble none of them. So -- if you must have a picture, think of Robin. Yes the comic book character. Tim Drake to be specific...there is three universal robins after all... No, I don't have a picture. But I did name him after Tim Drake's team mate, Bartholomew Allen. My hero. But don't worry -- I tend to be more descriptive when writing -- I'll try to always instill an image in your head and I realize that I have failed to do so previously. So if you want -- you can ignore the previous information I have just given to you, and envision these characters how I describe them within the story. Whatever floats your boat is perfectly fine with me. Thanks for the reviews.

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A week later and the team hadn't progressed with their mission. Alex found himself unusually frustrated. He didn't know how to progress in this case. He didn't know how to not fail. Blunt hadn't really given them much to go on. Academy bad. Got it. Next? But there was no next. There were no gadgets. There was hardly a mission in the first place. And it frustrated the hell out of Alex.

Peyton and Bart hadn't ever been 'spies' before in their lives. They'd never had to wait and wait and wait until something inside of them found something more to go on. Bart didn't seem to be waiting as much as the rest of them were. He always seemed busy with some plan or another, but he never offered up his plans. He didn't seem to view the others as a team, he didn't seem to realize they were all in the same boat. The boat that lacked a motor. One life vest hidden in secret wasn't going to help any of them.

Peyton, on the other hand, didn't seem too disturbed by this lack of success. She did her homework and participated in class as if she were at home. Normal. Oz differed from them all and Alex soon found that he couldn't quite read this one. Oz continued annoying the students and soon he learned the error of his ways. The teachers were not friendly, passive manikins like those he once went to school with. They were physical, and somewhat violent.

Yes, Oz did have a somewhat negative juvenile record, but never had he been manhandled quite so before and it unnerved him. Until his cover was blown he couldn't bodily defend himself. And if his cover were eventually blown? Well then he would be dead and therefore couldn't defend himself either way. But the team still wasn't sharing things. He hadn't told anybody how many times he'd been slammed against lockers or hit with rulers and nobody had told him how many times they'd each been physically assaulted. They were not quite a team and they may never become one. Not until tragedy shoved them together.

"What happened to your face?" Peyton asked. Her question was blunt as was her statement. That was her right there. Blunt, short, to the point. She didn't get offended and she didn't mind offending. She had blonde hair, the sort that was unquestionably real; thin, the curls crisp. The hair barely reached her shoulders and Oz found himself wondering what it would look like if it were longer, straighter. There was a dark shadow across her face and suddenly she wasn't quite the same person. She was different, darker, not quite a teenager anymore.

Peyton was sitting promptly on Oz's bed, the bed furthest from the door and yet she still faced the door, indian style, her arms draped over her knees, her expression seemingly light. "There's a chain of command in this school," Oz told her quietly. He was still standing in front of the dorm's door, leaning back against it. He looked physically exhausted, his head tipped back against the door, his mouth parted slightly, his eyes slightly open. His cheek was red and there was a nasty cut above his right eye. The skin around the cut looked tender, red. A thick line of blood had found itself across his eyebrow and nearly reached his eye. Until he wiped it away, smeering the blood. "It's an irrelivent fact -- seeing as there's a chain of command at every school. But how the teachers used to act...I guess I thought they gave themselves commands with one superior -- the principle. Or headmaster. Whatever. But something changed today and I don't know what."

"What do you mean?" Peyton asked, rising from the bed. There was a uniform at the school and Peyton seemed highly uncomfortable in the attire. Her skirt wasn't quite as short as her fellow classmates were, but she hadn't bothered to hem it up at all. It was a mossy green color with dark stripes that stopped just above her knees. She currently wore a dress shirt that was supposed to be tucked into her skirt. But she had immediately untucked it after classes. Her sleeves were also unbuttoned and loosely rolled up. She looked ruffled. That was the word. But Oz couldn't help looking at her. Her legs, barely visible between her socks and skirt. He looked away quickly. No. That wasn't happening and he was going to proceed to ignore her. Just another girl.

"So see," Oz began. "If you're doing something bad, cuss or just annoy the hell out of your teacher. Professor. My teachers would take me to their office and hit me. With a stick or their fist. Whatever. But they'd do it of their own accord. Fuck punishment -- that's how they disciplined. But suddenly it changed today and I'm not sure why."

"Changed?" Peyton asked, slowly approaching Oz. "Then who hit you?"

"It was a bat," Oz stated calmly. "There's this guy named Luiz. And he likes bats. He told me that. In between swings." Peyton's facial expressions suggested pity and Oz didn't like it. He shook his head quickly. "That's not the problem. He said he was in charge now. He was the go to guy when it comes to discipline. So I might as well get used to it or shape up. The teachers aren't permitted to discipline the students on a higher scale like they used to be. I wonder why."

Oz seemed paler in this light. Younger. His face was pale, his cut vibrantly red against his faint skin. He almost looked sick. He wasn't wearing the uniform, dressed in blue jeans and a dark t-shirt. His hair, which apparently stopped somewhere above his chin, was tied back in a tight poney tail. If his hair hadn't been curly it would have been longer. Peyton found herself staring at him. Dropping her eyes down his body, until she saw his hands. They were bloody along the knuckles, and inside one palm from where he had attempted to wipe away his bloody brow. His wrists were bloody too and the only thing that came to Peyton's mind was shackles. "You should sit down," she told him quietly. She used a voice he hadn't ever heard her use before. "I'll go get some...stuff. Anti-bacterial and what not, alright?"

Oz nodded slowly. In honesty, he would have been fine on his own. He hadn't expected anyone to be in his room but he should have. Alex never returned to the dorm after classes, but Peyton seemed to always be there. Sometimes it annoyed him, but right now he felt like comfort wouldn't be too bad. Not this time, at least.

Peyton had disappeared into the bathroom and when she returned Oz was sitting on the edge of his bed. She hadn't seen how gingerly he had sat down. Maybe she wouldn't have to know. She had toliet paper, a glass of water, a few band aids, gauze and a tube of anti-bacteria creme. She wet a piece of toliet paper and turned to Oz. "Give me your hand," she said quietly, glancing up at his eyes. He lifted his hand and held it in front of her, staring at her unashamed.

Peyton made quick work of his hands and wrists, trying to ignore the nearly silent grunts and hisses. And then she gently moved onto the cut above his eye, slowly sponging away the blood. Her hands were soft, ghosting over his skin. She was completely in control, calm and confident. "You done this before?" Oz heard himself say.

A flicker of a smile touched Peyton's lips before disappearing once more. "My mother was a doctor," she admitted, but the tone of her voice told a story all on it's own. "She was pretty adament about her children following in her footsteps. She taught me a lot. And then my brother was this cagefighter, so he would always show up kind've beaten, he didn't suck; he just wasn't invincible. He taught me how to fight." Peyton fell silent as she finished with his cut. "You okay?" She asked him quietly, leaning back slightly, giving the kid room.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Oz commented dismissively, glancing away.

"We're not friends, are we?" Peyton asked, leaning back slightly. Oz didn't answer, his empty gaze returning to Peyton's face. The shadow hadn't moved, it hadn't flickered, it remained attached to Peyton's face. It was the sort of shadow that could make beautiful girls unattractive, the shadow that remains there as the person behind it hardens. "Blunt thinks he's so clever. He thinks he can just throw people together and get things done. I don't think he quite understands humanity. He definitely can't imagine the inhuman stress he places upon a bunch of teenagers. If we fail, what is he gonna do? If we can't become friends, magically, suddenly, we'll die in here. Just because we're stubborn, stupid, teenagers. Just because we are who we were supposed to be. Children." Peyton rose from the bed. "You've probably experienced pretty bad 'discipline' here, but you haven't told anybody, have you?"

"Being friends wouldn't change that," Oz stated quietly, honestly. "It's kind've just me. Sorry. I suck."

"Yeah," Peyton agreed sorrowfully. "You kind of do." She had slowly made her way across the room and slowly stopped before the door. She glanced back at Oz before retreating from his room, softly closing the door behind her.

The library was so expansive that it was located in a different neighboring building. The building was half the size of the school, seven floors high. It was an old building containing an old elevator that didn't work half the time. This is the location of Bartholomew Malloy and this has been his location for the previous week. Silent observations and curious inquiries that normal students ignored; just new students asking around, innocent strangers, random bystanders would say. But those students did not realize that it was Alex Rider who sat opposite Bart.

"That's Dante," Bart said nodding to the right of their table. Alex follwed Bart's gaze. Dante sat more than half way across the room. He did not appear to be the particular student who spent his free time in the library. "He is the go-to guy of the student population. If anybody can get anything done it is that man. If anybody knows anything, it is him."

Alex squinted at Dante, trying to assess him. To be quite honest, he appeared as any normal teenager appeared. Maybe just a little darker. Alex supposed that he was of Italian descent. But his clothes were dark, and the book he was reading easily hid his facial features. His hair was black and scruffy, shielding his eyes. "Why?" was Alex's first question.

"I'm not sure," Bart answered honestly. "He's almost mythological. The stories surrounding this kid is not only lore but hard to differentiate. It's impossible to tell which ones are actual fact, maybe none of them are. The standard time spent here by any student is four years. Most kids come here, learn and then leave, without a problem. But this kid has left and come again several times. Almost as if it were -"

"A punishment," Alex finished for him. "That's an interesting way to view school."

"Accurate, I'd figure," Bart agreed. "But according to anybody who is willing to speak to me, this kid has been here longer than any of them. He leaves for a few months but he always returns."

Alex nodded curtly. "So anything that happens at this school you figure this kid knows," he confirmed. Bart nodded slowly still gazing evenly in Dante's general direction. "What do you think he knows?" Alex asked after a moment of silence.

Bart lifted his gaze sharply. It wasn't a question he had been prepared to answer. He didn't think anybody would inquiry such a thought. "There's a bad feeling in this school. I know you feel it too. It just feels so empty. Emptier than school normally feels. I know Blunt is stabbing blindly here because he wants to be able to pin someting on this school. I don't know why, maybe an old rivlery or something; it doesn't matter. But I believe that there is something wrong with this school. And I believe that that kid agrees with me."

Bart almost looked human. He was so completely removed from everybody else that it was almost surreal to see him show emotion for anything. But now Alex saw it in him. Humanity. His generally emotionless face appeared as somebody else's face; because it looked nothing like Bart's. His black hair obscurred his eyes. And his hands were knotted in his lap. Bart needed this mission to be a success just as much as anybody else. If not for Blunt then for himself.

"Alright," Alex replied calmly. His voice was almost reassuring. "I'll talk to him, see what he knows."

"If he doesn't know anything," Bart began, leaning forward in his seat slightly.

"Then we're left with nothing, again," Alex concluded. "Yeah, I know." Alex rose to his feet and proceeded to cross the expansive room without glancing back at Bart. Bart watched Alex leave him, slumbing back into his chair.


	5. Donnie

Dante didn't look up as Alex approached him. Alex ignored this undesireable reaction and slowly took the seat opposite him. Closer to Dante, Alex could observe his physical features a great deal easier. Dante's dark eyes were still diverted down, focusing on his book. But they weren't moving. His face was calm, emotionless. Alex blinked. "Dante?" When Dante didn't answer he continued. "I need to ask you something. If I do, will you answer?"

Dante glanced up from his book and slowly proceeded to close the novel. He set it gently on the table and folded his hands in his lap. "You're new right?" He asked. He had a deep voice, a simple voice that could easily be forgotten. It had a touch of condensicion that Alex wasn't sure he liked. "I'll let this slide as a warning. Now get away from me."

Alex found himself wanting to do just that. "No," he heard himself say, just as surprised as Dante was to hear such confidence in his unusually calm tone.

"What?" Dante asked. "Random nobodies don't have the right to address me," he started, his deep voice turning hard. "Random nobody, go away now. While you still can." Dante glanced over Alex's shoulder. Alex didn't need to follow his gaze to know that he was staring straight at Bart. He wasn't what Bart would do though. Would he return his gaze or look away? Maybe Bart knew better than to be looking in this direction in the first place... "Is that your girlfriend? That weird kid that you're always with."

"You been watching me?" Alex asked, slightly annoyed with the suprise in his voice.

Dante shook his head, a begrudging smile betraying his underlying amusement. "I've been watching that kid," he said quietly, nodding in Bart's general direction. "I hear he's been asking about me. Why so interested?"

"I told you," Alex stated. "I have a question," He added, trying to appear calm. He feared, however, that all he appeared to be was a lost fourteen year old boy. At least he would never be mistaken for a spy.

"Alright, nobody," Dante sighed. He had sank back in his chair and waved his hand casually. "Out with it."

"You know what this school is doing here, don't you? Alex asked, leaning forward in his chair slightly, gently resting his hands on the table before him.

Dante gave a short laugh. "They tell me that it's education; but like you, I am not convinced," he answered, his Italian accent slipping through slightly. Alex suddenly realized that Dante had been speaking with a British accent before his slip and he narrowed his eyes but Dante ignored his reaction.

"You know that's not what I mean," Alex responded calmly, taking the hint and thus ignoring the slip for the moment. "I hear that you see everything that goes on here, so evidently you would be the one to notice whether or not something illegal is going on."

Dante didn't laugh this time but he didn't look compelled to answer either. "Even if I did know something, what makes you think I'd tell a nobody like you something like that?"

"You'd only answer like that if you did know something," Alex concluded. Dante remained silent. "Okay look, I can't convince you. I get that. I guess I'll just have to find out some other way," Alex sighed, rising quickly to his feet.

"And how do you plan on doing that?" Dante asked, suddenly interested.

"That's none of your concern," Alex said promptly and turned to leave. He smiled to himself when he heared the frustrated sigh behind him.

"Fine," Dante sighed. "There's somebody I think you...and your girlfriend over there would like to meet."

"Why?" Alex asked, after turning to face Dante once more.

"Because I don't want to be liable for whatever happens to the pair of you. Because I don't infact know everything that is going on. Because the information you are searching so fruitlessly for is death on a platter, and I refuse to take part in that. Do you want to meet him or not?"

Alex forced himself to ignore Dante's precaution and to nod. "Yeah," he stated in a calm voice.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Donnie Parkens was seventeen years of age. And he sat huddled in a corner in the farside of a large empty room. The room was cold and emotionless and heavy with recycled air. Donnie's clothes were large on him, even though physically he was filled out and tall. His hair was disheveled, long brown curls hiding his wild eyes. He was grasping at the air, rocking back and forth, his eyes staring straight ahead at the ground before him, his mouth moving quickly, soundlessly.

"Donnie?" Dante asked uncertainly. He approached the boy slowly, his hands before him in a form of surrender. "Donnie, you remember me? It's Dante." His voice sounded unusually kind, reassuring. He stopped just before Donnie and lowered himself to his knees. The ground was cold concrete. Dante tried to catch Donnie's eyes. "Donnie?"

"D-Dante," Donnie stuttered uncertainly. "I remember you."

His answer was almost calm. Dante nodded and rose to his feet again. He turned and addressed Alex. "This is my cousin, Donnie. He has some mental disease. Like schizophrenia or something. There's nothing wrong with him, with his intelligence he's just a little...off. You know?" Alex nodded but he wasn't sure if he completely understood it. Dante glanced back at Donnie. "Donnie, these are some friends. They want to ask you some questions. Is that okay?" Dante had dropped the Italian accent altogether and shared his British accent with his cousin.

"No," Donnie answered quickly. "There's too many." He shook his head, staring hard at the ground, rocking feriously back and forth. "T-too many. Just too many," he muttered.

Dante glanced back at the three students behind him. He shrugged slightly. "He doesn't usually get this many visitors. It's usually just me. Or --"

"Them," Donnie answered for him, his gaze sharpening slightly. He was glaring at the ground before him, shaking his head mournfully. "They come in threes. With sticks." Donnie hugged himself tightly, clenching and unclenching his fists that clutched his arms despertely.

"Baseball bats," Bart confirmed quietly behind Peyton. "These are the rooms they take the kids that are too far gone for classes. The kids that were shipped off for disciplinary reasons."

"Kids that won't be missed," Peyton added, concerned about where Bart learned his information.

Dante glanced from Donnie back to Alex. "Only one person can stay," he commented. "Who --"

"You," Donnie interrupted. His voice was strong, certain. Dante turned to glance down at him and for the first time since they entered the room Donnie wasn't staring at the floor. His eyes were focused and staring forward, at Peyton. But once the group had locked eyes with him his eyes seemed edgy, unfocused and once more they returned to the floor.

"Okay," Alex said. "You alright with this?" He asked Peyton, who seemed unusually quiet. "You don't have to be alone with --"

"Not dangerous," Donnie said loudly, but his eyes remained on the floor, his knuckles white as his fists grasped the sleeves of his shirt. "I-I'm not," he said, shaking his head.

"I'm fine," Peyton reassured Alex. "You guys can just get lost. Go find that spaz Oz and see why he flaked out."

"Alright," Alex said quietly even though he wasn't planning on searching for Oz. Whatever Oz did on his own was of his own concern. Peyton watched Bart, Alex and Dante recede, the door closing soundly behind them, before she turned back to Donnie.

"So," Peyton began, slightly uncomfortably. "Uh, my name's Peyton," she said quietly.

"Peyton," Donnie repeated, nodding shakily. "Pretty."

Peyton felt herself smile. "Thanks," she added. "Do you know the questions we want to ask you?"

Donnie shook his head. "N-no. I can't read my minds," he added.

Peyton found herself smiling and lowered herself to the ground so that she and Donnie were eye-to-eye. "Dante says that you've witnessed some pretty bad things at this school," she commented.

"I-I'm not supposed to talk about this," Donnie said quickly, his shaking quickening.

"No, I know," Peyton said quickly, trying to calm him down. "You're not supposed to mention this to 'them'. But we're friends. All of us, we're the good guys. We would never hurt you."

"I don't know that. How could I know that," Donnie asked quickly. "Everybody wants to hurt me. That's all they do. That---that...That's all they do," he said sadly.

"Donnie," Peyton said quietly. "You're scared. Just...just tell me why. What freightens you so much?"

Donnie lifted his gaze to stare straight at Peyton. He was quiet until Peyton began feeling a bit uncomfortable. "Why," he repeated, his voice quiet, incredulous. He rose quickly to his feet and crossed the room quickly. He reached the door and quickly glanced out the small square to see if anyone was outside the door. There was no one there and when Donnie turned back to Peyton she was standing as well. He crossed the room quickly and approached Peyton so quickly that she subconsciously felt herself take a step back. Donnie was taller than her and towered over her. "They're killing people here," he whispered quickly.

Peyton straightened up. "Really? How do you know this, Donnie?"

Donnie was pacing quickly now, in front of Peyton, back and forth but never any closer to the door. "I-I had this friend. Friend. But he wasn't very smart. He...he always made them mad. He--he would say these things. Just to piss them off. And they would punish him but it never helped. He never stopped. So they took him downstairs...to-to one of these rooms. These big empty, useless rooms. And they strapped him onto a table. And they killed him."

"They strapped him onto a table --"

"Ye-yeah. With these restraints. His arms and legs," Donnie clarified.

"How did they kill him?" Peyton asked, her eyes easily trailing Donnie's quick pacing. "I mean like...with a knife or a gun or --"

Donnie shook his head quickly. "No. No. Nothing that obvious. Had to be accident. They just left him there. For days until he finally died. And then they told people t-that he just s-starved himself and no...nobody could do anything about it." Donnie ran both hands through his hair, clenching the hair between his fist. "That's why I'm here, don't you understand? In this room. It's because I saw them and they know it. They want to kill me but they know how suspicious it would look. Two murders in the same month. How peculiar."

"Donnie," Peyton began. She reached a hand, ignoring Donnie's visible flinch. She gripped his arm firmly but gently and pulled him to a stop. "Please stop pacing, you're making me dizzy."

"You don't believe me, do you?" Donnie asked, hugging himself again. He was rocking on his feet, too much energy within him to control. "Noone - noone ever believes me. Noone ever -"

"Donnie, stop it," Peyton said quickly. "I believe you. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe you."

Donnie seemed to go completely still, his eyes staring straight into Peyton's. "Really? You really believe -- Well what does this mean exactly? I-I mean. How did you know? Why are you here?" Donnie paused, breathless. "What does this mean exactly?" He repeated.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Peyton asked. She wasn't sure what compelled her but she felt this white hot need. She had to be honest with this kid and she wasn't sure why. Donnie nodded vigorously, but somewhere within his intense gaze she saw doubt. This was a kid who had been fooled time and time again; caught, beaten. He was a broken toy with the prospect of being fixed. He wasn't sure if he should surrender all dignity just to be whole again. "I'm American," Peyton stated. But she hadn't bothered much with an accent so she wasn't expecting Donnie to be surprised.

"I was sent here by a man I never knew before to find out everything I can about this institution," Peyton told him quietly. Donnie smiled and shook his head but Peyton wasn't smiling. She wasn't yelling 'Gotcha ya.' Her gaze was intense. Serious.

"You're lying," Donnie concluded, his gaze turning hard. "Why?" He asked, shaking his head. "Why do you people always do this to-to me. What did I ever --"

Donnie had began pacing again, receding further into himself, shaking his head and mumbling to himself, his fists clenching and unclenching vigorously. "No, Donnie," Peyton snapped. "I'm not lying; not trying to fool you. I'm seriously not like that."

"You think I-I'm easy," Donnie argued. "J-just because I-I'm like this. You think because I'm wrong in the head that I'm easy to get a laugh out of. Just a walking joke, am I?"

"What?" Peyton asked, momentarily taken off guard. "No," she answered quickly. "Look," she said firmly, gripping Donnie's arm tightly and forcing him to stand still. Donnie's eyes were unfocused and even while he stood in one place he was trembling slightly. "I know I'm just some random stranger to you, Donnie," Peyton assured him quietly. "But I assure you, one way or another, I am going to get you out of here. It's not safe in here, and I do not belong here. Nor do you."

Donnie nodded his head. "Will you come back?" He asked suddenly, forcing his eyes up to meet Peyton's. "You don't need me anymore, but will you come back anyway?"

"Donnie," Peyton murmured sadly. Donnie almost resembled a child. His face expectant, even though deep down he already knew the answer. Always the same answer. Peyton lifted her hand to touched Donnie's arm but he shrank back. She sighed. "Sure," she said quietly. "I'll come back."


End file.
